“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Imogen. “Why didn’t you tellme?”
“I never knew he had aproblem.” Celeste was using a little-girl voice, soft and high-pitched. “I didn’t know that he’d ever done drugs until after he was dead. When they told me . . . when they told me how he died, I couldn’t believe it. I thought it must have been a one-time thing—like he was stressed or his back was killing him and he needed to relax. I thought he made a mistake.”
“So when you told us he died of a brain aneurysm . . .” Imogen said.
“It was an overdose. Fentanyl.” Celeste sounded utterly defeated.
Bernie exhaled and smoothed her hair back behind her ears, satisfied that the affair accusations were dead in the water. “I’m so sorry, Celeste. It’s a disease, and there’s no shame in it. Harry was an excellent doctor. He always had, and always will have, my respect.”
Discovering that Dr. Harry Sarkassian had an opioid problem had been an enormous stroke of luck for Bernie. Harry was her main competitor in the cardiac department—a skilled surgeon with excellent bedside manner—not that he was aware of the target on his back. After accidentally walking in on him in the supply closet with the fentanyl patches, Bernie decided that the best course of action was for her to become a supportive ear. She told him that she’d experienced addiction issues of her own (a lie—the coke was purely recreational) and that she was five years sober (nope). She let him open up to her, taking in all the information she could, sifting through it for golden nuggets she could hoard and polish to use against him.
Bernie had assumed there would be time to spread some poison around in a way that couldn’t be traced back to her, enough to make it so that Harry couldn’t be considered for a promotion. But she was wrong. When the chief of surgery position opened up, there was no contest—the decision was made swiftly, internally, and with no notice. Dr. Matthews was retiring, Dr. Sarkassian was in. Harry told her the news over salads in the cafeteria, expecting her to be delighted for him.
“I can’t tell you how much your friendship means to me, Bern-dog. You’ve really helped me keep it together and I appreciate all your support and discretion about my . . . issues. I want you to know that you are going to be a valued member of my team.”
It took all her self-control not to stab his operating hand with her fork. She speared a piece of lettuce instead. “Wow, this is all happening so fast. I didn’t think they’d even officially announced that the position had opened up. Are you—is this final?”
Harry grinned. “I know, it’s crazy, right? It’s unofficially official. I’ll do the paperwork tomorrow and they’ll announce it then. But I wanted you to know first. I haven’t even told Celeste yet—I think I’m going to wait until tomorrow when it’s for-real real, you know, bring home a bottle of champagne and celebrate. She’s going to be so surprised.”
“I bet she will.” Bernie jabbed several grape tomatoes in quick succession and jammed them into her mouth. The skins burst and popped between her molars.
The next morning, Bernie caught Harry in the cafeteria as he was waiting to pay for his coffee. “Hey, Sarkassian. Meet me in 3F when you’re done morning rounds, it’s urgent.” She turned and walked off, no chance for him to say no. No electronic trail of this meet-up, either.
Later that day, Bernie waited for Harry in the medical supply closet on the third floor. The needle was already prepared and waiting in her lab coat pocket when he arrived.
“Hey! Sorry I’m late. Rounds took longer than usual because one of my patients had a-fib and another one’s kidneys are acting up. What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
Bernie took a step toward him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you this morning. I wanted to get a private moment before you became my boss.” She smiled up at him sheepishly. “It’s hard to believe. I mean, we’re friends, but now you’ll technically be in charge of me.”
“Yeah, but nothing’s going to change in our friendship, you know that.” Harry was distracted; he looked at his watch and took a step backwards toward the door. “Was that it?”
Bernie spoke quickly to reel him back in. “What I mean to say is that even though you’re going to be in this new position, you can still come to me with the drug stuff. You know, if you feel like you need support.” She stepped closer and opened her arms for a hug—an unusual move. For all his struggles with addiction, Harry had never wavered in his fidelity to Celeste and he had always maintained scrupulous physical boundaries with colleagues.
Thankfully, Harry took the bait. “Thanks, Berndog. It’s good to know you’re in my corner.” He let her pull him into an embrace, leaning in with his upper body only, keeping it chaste. Bernie quickly dipped her hand into her lab coat pocket, extracted the syringe, and looped her arms around his neck. “Wait, why do you have your gloves on?” He barely felt the needle go in, right under his hairline. They’d never look for the puncture mark there.
“Bern—what—” He staggered forward in her arms and her nose smushed into his chest. He smelled good, fresh laundry over clean sweat. Bernie eased his weight against the supply shelf as he slumped down to the floor. She had carefully calibrated the dose against his body weight and drug history and she was confident in her calculations. Quickly, she created a secondary injection site in the crook of his left elbow, placed the needle in his right hand, and then, on a whim, slid his platinum wedding band from his ring finger and slipped it into her pocket. She exited the supply closet, stripping her gloves off before she left. A nurse found Harry an hour later and raised the alarm.
The hospital kept the cause of death quiet because a drug overdose by a star surgeon would have been a terrible look and almost certainly would have caused an exodus of donors. The obituary described his sudden passing as the result of an underlying condition.
Bernie was appointed chief of surgery one week later.
18
MARTA
Marta poured the remainder of a bottle of rosé into her plastic goblet, wishing she was anywhere else. She’d thought the weekend would be a relaxing escape, and had imagined the others rallying around in her time of need, but she felt even more invisible than usual.
Even though it was unkind, learning about Harry’s hidden drug use had made Marta feel a little better about her own relationship. Not that addiction compared to Derrick’s issues, but at least she’d finally get a break from having Celeste rub her perfect husband in her face all the time. Celeste was currently crying messily between sips of wine as Imogen comforted her, and Bernie had returned to filing her nails.Great dock hang, everyone.
Marta heaved herself out of her lounger, the backs of her thighs sticky, and walked out to the end of the L-dock. The blue sky above was now streaked with white, and across the lake there were heaps of grey-black clouds piling up. A sudden gust of wind almost blew her sun hat from her head. “Guys, look.” Marta pointed out over the water.
Imogen released Celeste from her embrace and straightened up. “Oh shit, here it comes. Let’s get inside.” A distant roll of thunder sounded, snapping everyone into action. They quickly gathered their magazines, snacks, and drinks, and hurried to the cottage. The first fat drops blooped onto Marta’s top as she shut the kitchen door behind them.
The storm slammed into the cottage in full force, pounding the roof, splattering against the windows, gushing through the eaves. Marta found the noise soothing. The women made their way to the sunroom, which was now gloomy and grey, illuminated by occasional flashes of lightning. The lake had all but disappeared behind sheets of rain. Bernie circled the room, flicking on lamps, then excused herself to freshen up. Marta went to the kitchen and puttered around, loading a tray with cold cuts, buns, chopped vegetables, and a large pitcher of water. She thought everyone could probably do with some proper nutrients. However, when she placed the tray down on the coffee table in front of Imogen and Celeste, her offerings were largely ignored.
Marta poured a glass of water for Celeste and shoved it into her hand. “Here, you should drink this.” She was unmoved by Celeste’s droopy expression. Yes, the whole addiction thing with Harry was dramatic. However, Marta’s husband wascurrently missingand would it kill Celeste to take care of herinstead of the other way around? But Marta hated thinking of herself as uncharitable, so she tried to squash those feelings by being overly solicitous. “I’ll get you the tissues while you hydrate, okay?”
When Marta returned with a box of Kleenex, she almost hurled it at Celeste’s head. Because there she was on the couch, cradling a fresh glass of wine, her water untouched on the floor beside her. Celeste’s head was resting on Imogen’s shoulder, and Imogen was stroking her arm and cooing at her in a low voice. Marta couldn’t remember the last time Imogen had treated her like that (maybe never) and the intimacy of the moment jammed a splinter of jealousy through her heart.
